The Adventures of Tommy Q: Attack of the Fangirls
by MeyoUSonIC
Summary: A little Jommy one-shot that came from some insane, uncharted region of my brain. Tom Quincy, former boybander turned rockstar-on-tour, faces his worst fear when he is kidnapped by a mob of Boyz Attack! fangirls. Will he ever escape? Tommy's POV


Before I start this I have to give a few quick shout-outs. This diddy was inspired by a few things. The original inspiration is, oddly enough, an Ovid poem called 'Arion and the Dolphin'. The dolphin turns into some constellation at the end so that made me think of Instant Star (don't even ask how my mind works). Then, my Latin teacher had to compare Arion, a lyre player coming back from a Sicilian town, to Justin Timberlake, and that made me think of all ex-boybanders which made me think of Tommy.

Secondly, the character Ribotola REE-boe-toe-lah was inspired by carenicoleIQ's fic "Rock of Love," more specifically the character Saskia. She has a similar...erm..._essence_ as Saskia, though Ribotola stands on her own as well. I just thought the character idea was hilarious and inadvertently, really, wrote Ribotola to be oddly similar, though different. Same cup size, though.

Setting: Takes place sometime in the future. Doesn't have much to do with the finale, and any events therein don't affect characters' attitudes. Basically, all of that has been dealt with and is water under the bridge. You'll see where everyone's ended up.

Disclaimer: I don't own _Instant Star_ or any ideas that I have conferred the credit for above.

**PG-13** ish for some of Tommy's language. I apologize on his behalf. He's a bit of a naughty boy.

* * *

**The Adventures of Tommy Q: Attack of the Fangirls**

It's like a sea surrounds me. There's no way out; I'm completely encompassed, and I am definitely _not_ going to attempt to tread this water. I'll be eaten alive. Now I know how Johnny Depp feels; like a captain seeking mercy from a converging circle of mutinous mates, I figure I could try a charming smile and attempt at humor.

"C'mon, ladies, I'm sure there's enough Tommy to go around." Ow. Screaming fangirls are _so_ not what my ears need at eight in the morning. Oh great, they're jumping now. It's like a hoard of bleached blonde jackrabbits on speed. That is, if jackrabbits could be this vicious. And wave signs of my face with the determination of angry picketers.

"TOMMY!" A blonde screams. I wince again.

"MARRY MEEE" Umm. No.

"HAVE MY BABIES!" Umm. Hell no.

"MASSAGE ME IT'S MY LIFE'S DREAM TOMMY PLEAASE!" Wow. I don't even want to know the rest of your aspirations.

Whew. That helps. Covering my ears at least brings it down to a dull, tumultuous roar. See, you probably know this already, but my name's Tommy Quincy. Yes, _the_ Tommy Quincy. You may know me as the ever-notorious member of Boyz Attack, but please tell me you've mostly forgotten. No? Damn it. Anyways, I much rather my later title, Head Producer Extraordinaire of Nana's Basement Records, home of the now world famous Jude Harrison. I produced a few kick ass records at G-Major after Boyz!, rose to moderate fame again, moved to NBR after my contract ended, blah, blah, blah: you know the story (well, enough of it for my comfort). What you might not know is this. You remember that solo career I've been pining for? Well, let's just say I finally got it...and in a big way.

You see, it all started when a certain fiesty, blonde acquaintance of mine told a certain dorky, shaggy-haired boss of mine that I had been secretly working on some solo songs. This stuff was strictly exclusive. Jude had been pestering me for months to start singing again, something about me getting too old and cranky--she blamed it on creative repression. I said that it was the stress of having to deal with her stubborness that led to my wrinkles, but she would have none of it (proving my point exactly). Anyways, she locked me in a room with only her and a guitar, and it was pretty inevitable what resulted. No, not _that_, for those dirty minds out there. We wrote songs. Amazing songs. Songs that could only result from...well, me, her, a guitar, and a locked room. I told her that what played in the room, stayed in the room, but, as you can anticipate, she didn't uphold that. No, she ran straight to Jamie and Zeppelin with the songs and, well, the rest is history.

No matter how reluctant I seemed to having a solo career, I secretly wanted one. The packed stadiums, the adrenaline rush, and of course playing my own stuff: eventhough I loved the studio, I missed performing. I knew the time was right again to get back out there, but I wasn't going to say that. I had artists to produce, I didn't want them to feel like I ditched them for the good life. You know, I do have a heart. But ironically, it was one of those artists precisely that got me out there. Eh, it's no suprise. Jude can always tell what I'm hiding--trust me, it's often my pitfall. And now the name of Tommy Quincy travels across the Floridian shores to the lands of Cuba and Rome, all the way to Australia and back again, and I can't say it isn't all I dreamed of. I guess you're expecting an 'except, in the studio...' or a 'but I miss...' here. Nah. The only thing that I don't like is well, this. Yep, the crazed and vicious fangirls, particularly of--where am I again? Oh yeah, Sicily.

Speaking of, I'm trapped in a sea of the very same girls. How did I manage this, you ask? It takes master skills to screw one's self over to this extent. In light of that, I will explain the process carefully and methodically, dumbass decision by dumbass decision, just so you don't get lost in the complexity of my stupidity. Step One: Trust Kwest. Don't look at me like that! I know it was stupid, no need to rub it in. I'm thinking, well, he is my best buddy ole pal and if he says that the coast is clear outside our parked bus for me to make a run to the convienence store for some red licorice, it must be a-okay. Umm...no. Step Two: Forget to disguise one's self. I have no excuse for this one except maybe genetics. My dad was known to be a forgetful man even in his twenties. He failed to remember his pants one time; walked into the subway wearing only tighty whities, that man did. That is, until he realized he was literally freezing his ass off. You think I'm kidding, but no. I don't kid about nudity; I'm not that kind of guy. Step Three: Answer Jude's phone call. I knew it was a bad habit to get into, always answering her damn calls. Eh, that what I get for actually wanting to talk to someone for a change. If it was Jamie, I'd be back in the bus eating delicious red licorice, watching reruns of _Walker, Texas Ranger_, and ignoring Jamie's very own 'I'm a Barbie Girl' ringtone. Instead, I answered, then Jude had to be so damned charming and make me stop to talk to her, and before you can say 'stalker', these girls were chasing me down the street to God knows where.

Somehow, in the rush of madness that occurred when they finally caught up to me (I knew I shouldn't have eaten Hot Pockets and microwave chimichangas for the past four weeks.), my phone got viciously ripped from my clutches and tossed about the vortex of screaming girls. Good thing, though, I think that not so skinny one stepped on it. At least I won't have to deal with an obsessed fan taking it home and calling all my contacts until they reach me. Only bad thing is, oh yeah, now _I_ have no way of contacting a rescue team. Maybe I should start like doing bird calls or something. 1) It would freak them out. 2) A sparrow of sorts may come to my aid...like Snow White or something. A girly movie? What? A guy can't enjoy a classic Disney film? I beg your pardon. First of all, it makes me sensitive, which appeals to women, and second of all, it softens up my cynicism, which appeals to virtually everyone associating with me. Too bad that none of those attributes will help my current situation. I still need a way to get of here before I'm like mass raped or put in a real-life Little Tommy Q shrine or something.

Ah hah! That's it! Maybe if I offer them a priceless Tommy Q 'souvenir', so to speak, I can get them to leave on their own accord. It's like bribery, but more effective. They won't turn down a precious memento to put in their BoyAttack! collections even if it means leaving me alone.

"Ladies, what do you want? An autograph?" They don't look convinced. I shuffle through my pockets for something a crazed fan might want. Ah! "A napkin I used earlier today?" Umm...wallet! That's it! "Oooh, look! A gen-u-ine Tommy Quincy--signed and dated--library card!" (And, for the record, yes, I can read.)

"All I want is your shirt!" one screams from the outskirts of the crowd. Eh, it's a small price to pay to escape this. I guess I can take off the sh--

"NO, I WANT HIS SHIRT!"

"WAIT, NO I DO!"

"NO, ME!!"

"I WANT HIS SHIRT!!"

"I WANT HIS BOD!!"...okay?

"NO! I WANT HIS SHIRT! They all start yelling at each other. Before I know it, bam! Forty or so manicured hands are reaching out for me, grabbing for any bit of my shirt they can claim. I'm being pulled in 25 different directions, and rather fiercely might I add. Okay, that's stretching out the collar. That hurts, mind you. A 'riiippp!' emerges from the piercing screeches. One teared a piece of my shirt, literally, off of my body. Bitch. Of course, they all take that as their cue to start claiming strips of my shirt, and one after another, these girls are clawing for the clothes off of my body. Ow! That one pinched my nipple! Eee! Hands off the nether regions! Okay! Jeez, you can have the shoe!

Once they had all claimed their piece of me, I was left looking and feeling basically like I had been swept up into several consecutive tornados, and if I wasn't still wearing my Calvin Klein boxers you would gage me a hobo. My shirt has only pieces and threads remaining so that I'm virtually shirtless. The hole that was originally in my jeans is now about two feet in diameter. I have one shoe...and somehow that shoe no longer has laces (when that happened, I cannot be sure). As I hobble about on an unbalanced plane, hoping to regain my balance and possibly my right mind, I hear the most horrible noise. And I have been to most of the Instant Star preliminary auditions--trust me, you don't want to know the cacophony that comes out of some people's mouths. Yet, this sound trumps them all. I stop for a moment and close my eyes tight. I open one hesitantly, hoping I'm not hearing what I think I'm hearing. But alas, it is just as I suspected. The girls are _still_ shrieking around me! After all of that! I was nearly mauled to death, ripped to shreds, my dignity taken along with my shoe and most of the fabric of my clothes, and yet they are _still_ here. This was not the plan at all! Bribery, damn it! You all are supposed to leave me the hell alone! You've got your piece of me-- Mr. Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous...Mr. Oh my God that Quincy's shameless! And look! Now you also got that song stuck in my head, and I should be equally as angry about that!

Appeasement...appeasement...appeasement. What will get them to leave? Oh fuck it! I am running as fast I can and hoping I still have my 'Red Rover' skills from the fourth grade. I didn't want it to go down like this, but Mr. Quincy is pulling out his cheetah-like agility teamed up with his Superman-like strength and he is breaking out! (I feel strangely like a crazed black woman in a mental asylum...)

On the count of three...one, two...ahhh. No, not yet, they're expecting it. Okay...um...now. One, two, three...wait. Lemme get psyched up a bit. _It's the, Eye of the Tiger, it's the thrill of the fight..._. Yeah, buddy. Uh-huh. You do not wanna mess with this. This is like TQ on steroids, bitch. You don't even want to know. Here we go now, here we go now...

ONE...TWO...THREE...AIYIYIYI!

...

Am I dead? Is that the light, I see? I can reach for it, I'm reaching, but now something is stroking my hand. Something...furry? I open an eye to see an Italian woman (at least I hope it's a woman) petting me, two discoball-like earrings searing the sun light right into my cornea. Her jugs are about the size of Montana, each, and she's got enough hair on her arms alone to cover Darius' bald "spot". Not to mention the obvious camel toe that seems more appropriately called elephant toe in this case. Picture Richard Simmons as a 350 pound, Sicilian woman wearing animal print and pleather. No, it isn't a pleasing image; how the hell do you think I feel?

"I will take most good care of you Little Tommy" she says in a thick Italian accent. "I am R-rrrr-ibotola. I want to know where it hurts you" No, that's okay. Okay, boobs incoming...please...stop. Next thing I know my face is all up in...that. Okay, I can't exactly breathe.

"Women, you shall care for Little Tommy as well." Women? Glancing around I see that I am surrounded (yep, same girls) and in some remote alley. Apparently, Ribotola has become some sort of den mother to all of the fangirls and they're plotting my kidnap. At least that's how it seems. "He is hurt. He trip while running, oh silly boy. Lucky for him, we are here to break his fall...with our love." The way she looks at me when she growls 'love'...agg...makes me cringe. And I have a sinking feeling that she is not kidding. Honestly, I don't think this woman/grizzly bear/BoobsAttack! frontman would joke about anything...ever.

"I see your clothing has been torn, Little Tommy," she says inquisitively. I hold back a sardonic chuckle when all the girls surrounding me blush and look down into their purses discreetly, no doubt at the piece of my shirt they claimed. Ribotola obviously wasn't quite around yet for that brush with death. She must've have seen my prone body on the sidewalk surrounded by the girls and that's when her sick scheme developed. She had me defenseless, damn it. And I don't like being taken advantage of! Unless...hehe...you know. Uhh...nevermind. I won't go there.

"I will get you new outfit. Better outfit. _Appropriate_ outfit." Wa-wa-wait one second there, momma bear! Hold up, nuh-uh, I see evil in every single pair of these female eyes. And I know evil, plotting female eyes ahem Jude Harrison ahem! I hear their manaical giggles in the background, too. That is NOT a good sign. I have a feeling this outfit has more to it than covering my delicate man parts. Oh, jeez, I do not want to be pictured on the front page of every tabloid in Europe wearing like a full body spandex suit, or a cowboy porn star outfit, or lace undies, or something. But then again, the other option for them might be simply stripping me to my birthday suit, and I draw the line at forced public nudity.

Weighing the options, my instinct says run. Considering, though, where my last attempt at that landed me, I have to think twice. Aaaand it's not even an choice because one of the girls is now shackling my legs up. Fan-fucking-tastic. Just great! Add forcible binding to the list! Go ahead! The only choices I can think of now are hopping away as fast as I can (I sucked at running; that would just be humiliation.) or staying for whatever plan Ribotola has cooked up. Gah! This sucks!

Imagine, right now what I could be doing. I could be taking a nice shower, maybe a little bubble bath, then talking to Jude, teasing her about her infatuation with various scented shampoos, and asking again why she had to stock my suitcase up with them. Apparently, she loves to smell my head, so she's got me on this five month plan. I'm currently on coconut and next week I move to pomegranate apple. She says my hair will pretty much permanently smell amazing after this. When I get home, I swear I'm going to stock her bathroom with something and demand she use it (oh, the possibilities). And then I'll give her shit about giving me shit about my hair products because she has obsessive tendencies as well.

Or maybe...I won't. Maybe this experience will open up my life to rainbows and peace and I will never get into a petty argument again. Life is just too short, right? Yeah... it'll all be rainbows, and fucking butterflies, and, like, maybe some ponies, too. Zen, feng-shui, pikachu, and all that crap. I will be like Paegen. (Sans the guyliner, that's not my style.) Or...not. Maybe I won't escape this. Ever. I will be Ribotola's slave. (Cue gagging here.) Somehow Britney Spears' song pops into my head, the slave one. And the music video. I could just imagine it now, me dressed scantily, being choked by an anaconda while the hairy Italian tit machine has her way with me. Agh! Permanently erasing image, I advise you do the same.

Damn, speak of the furry breast monster.

"Little Tommy! Oh, Little Tommy! How are you doing?" How do you think I'm doing?! Yeah, I'm in effing bliss; forcibly-binded, fangirl-incarcerated bliss!

I guess she took my shudder as enough an answer. "Well, I hope you feel better soon. Because it's coming. The time is coming." Creepy and ominous, too? Haha, that's a chuckle.

I need to ask, eventhough I'm not sure I want to know. "Um... The time for w-what?" I manage to peep out. I swear I sound like a freaking five year old. Jeez. I thought I was a man, but I sound so pre-pubescent and squeaky when scary, macho Italian woman is hovering over me, her big ass tits threatening to poke out my eyeballs.

"Oh oh," she chuckles out. "You will see, Little Tommy. You will see _and_ do."

"O-okay..." Damn. There's the squeak again. Ahem. Do excuse me as I search for my testicles. I seem to have lost them somewhere between the kidnapping and the imprisonment.

As Ribotola walks away, I can't help but think of what I might have to _'do'_. God, I hope I stay fulled clothed. Why do I doubt that, though? Watch her want to make some sex tape of me or something. I'm kinda doubting I'd survive that, but I'm trying to stay as calm as possible here so work with me. Hmm. Maybe, she can call it _'One Night in French-Canada'_. Bleh. Of all the many names I have, no cities. Oh well. That'll have to do. I don't know how I'm not chucking up my Hot Pocket thinking of these kinds of insane scenarios, but, again, staying calm will keep my mind clear and focused for whatever chance I may get to escape.

I guess I've come to accept my fate, though, really. I will be dragged down into the fiery pits of fangirl and never come up. I will be tortured until the day I wither away into former-rockstar nothingness. _All we are is dust in the wind..._ They won't look for my remains. They'll 'boohoo' about my disappearance and 'oh, well, too bad' until no one finds my scantily clad carcass. No one will care about little ole me. No one I tell you. I'll be on _24 hours_ where they'll do some lame-ass portrait of my life, and by the end of it they'll have claimed I have 3 or so surviving love-children and that this all started when I spiraled into a heroine addiction or something. _'Tom Quincy dies in alleyway after he is dealt his last line of coke'._ They spin that shit until they go fucking loopy. And I have no witnesses on my behalf. For all they know, Ribotola was nursing me back to health..._'with her love'_...as she so aptly claims.

I look around at the grimy brick walls, the gray concrete, the shackles on my feet, and I can't help but feel like this is some cruel joke on me. The universe is getting back at me, that's it. It's like the ultimate karma. I fuck up. The universe fucks me up. It's like a cosmic boxing match with Arnold Schwarzenegger, or someone else who resembles a semi-truck. You give a little punch and wham! Next thing you know you're face is on the ground and you're being called a _'girly man'_ in a thick Austrian accent. All those stupid one night stands, drinking tequila and trying to get lucky. Leaving my family. Joining the ultimate anti-music group; that's enough to put the whole world out of sync. Up there, whoever You are, it was just a white bandana and some puffy white pants; I didn't mean to, God, I'm sorry! And about all those times I hurt Jude, I was scared and stupid! I really love her, Big Guy. That was years ago, haven't I redeemed my self? I swear, just give her a call; she'll tell you all about it.

"OH, LITTLE TOMMY! IT IS TIME!" Oh crap. Oh crap. Oh crap. Happy place. I'm going to my happy place. Closing eyes, rubbing temples, hmmmmm, _Little darlin', here comes the sun, here comes the sun, doo-doo doo doo doo..._

"Put this on, Little Tommy!" Should I look up at what she's holding? Should I? No...yes... I mean...okay. Here goes...

Oh my Lord.

Ha-fucking-ha. Now, _this_ is rich. Is this you're idea of equal payback God? Throwing this right back in my face?!

A jumpsuit. All white. Stitched on the back in shiny silver threads reads _'Lil' Tommy Q'_. Oh, and look the bandana, too, that's just PERFECT!

Thank you universe! I fucking _heart_ you! Remind me to send a Christmas Card!!

"Little Tommy? Why do you go pale, Little Tommy?" Ribotola questions. "No worry. You will sing and you will feel aaalll better!"

Sing? Me? _I'm_ going to sing?

You're right, hairy tit lady, that does make it ALL FUCKING BETTER!

"Women almost finish setting up your little stage, right over there, do you see? We will all have private concert. With BoyzAttack songs. And if we do not receive concert, it will not be good for you, Little Tommy." Oh, shit.

"W-what do you mean?"

"Do you have life, Little Tommy? In Canada country?"

"Yes. Yes I do. I have a new house, and I'm going to get--"

"Not anymore. Ribotola decide if or when Little Tommy goes. And she knows that she will not release without song. That is sure thing."

I swallow my fear. "So she will release me if I sing?" I try my thosand-watt boybander smile.

"Maybe. She will think about it. Depend how much the butt shakes and how much she is pleased." There's she goes with the evil smirk. Gosh, woman, stop looking at me like a piece of meat! No, you CANNOT have _that_. It does not and will never belong to you.

"If it is not how she likes, she will keep making Little Tommy sing until she is satisfied. Every. Single. Night." Oh, shit.

Huh? Now what? Why is she getting all smiley and happy?

"They are complete. It is time. It is now time," she says, more to the small group of fangirls behind her than to me.

Okay, they're touching me, pulling me up. I stand up and shuffle my way, with their goading, to the makeshift stage towards the back of the alley, pulling the white jumpsuit and bandana on top of my shreds. Is this what hell feels like? This is like personalized torture. I hate being reminded of my past, so they make me relive it. In the past eight years or so, I've developed a strong aversion to giddy fangirls throwing themselves at me, more specifically those of the BoyzAttack! genre, so I'm imprisoned by them. To be completely honest, I'm a tad claustrophobic, so it's just perfect that this is in an alley. Oh and I've always been deathly afraid of grizzly bears (camping trip when I was five; don't ask), and I'm pretty certain Ribotola is thier human incarnate.

I step on stage and my shackles--thank the Lord--are removed. "Only temporary so Little Tommy can booty shake," Ribotola points out. Well, no matter what the reason, I'm glad they're gone. Those suckers were beginning to chafe.

"Girls will make request for Little Tommy," Ribotola explains, "and he will sing and groove to beat of song." Beat? Wow. She actually has back beats for me to work with. I don't know how I feel about that. I'm mostly frightened by the premeditation.

"Ooh! Ooh!" All of the girls raise their hands and jump up and down. It's really starting to make me nauseated. Like doing 'The Wave' at sporting events, except coupled with hysterical crying.

"I WANT 'SHAPE OF MY HEART,'" one girl booms over the cacophony. Ribotola gets that evil smirk on her face and she fools with her CD player. Suddenly, the beat of the song fills the alley. I sigh.

Well, here goes nothing. I reluctantly shake my butt before singing, dancing the choreography that is unfortunately seared into my brain.

_"Baby, please try to forgive me  
Stay here don't put out the glow  
Hold me now don't bother if every minute it makes me weaker  
You can save me from the man that I've become, oh yeah..."_

Oh yes. Now I remember just _vividly_ how bad this song is.

If I didn't have so much to look forward to in life, and Ribotola didn't scare me shitless, maybe I would have stopped this crap and made a run for it. But I _do_, and she sure as hell _does_. I've been at this booty shaking shit for at least an hour and a half. I figured she would have ran out of songs by now, but I swear she has all three albums. My mind keeps wandering to the inevitable fact that it seems I will be doing this for the rest of my damn life. I'm seriously trying to avoid that and stay calm, but my resolve is fading with every dance move and horrible lyric that she makes me sing.

"Okay, Little Tommy. Last song! For _now_ at least...," Shit, there's the evilness again. And the ominous-ness. Oh, yeah, and the creepiness, too.

"And the song will be..." I can just hear the proverbial drum roll in the background. "'Pick Up the Pieces'"

This is just great. My _favorite_! Shoot me now! At least it's the last of them...for _now_. Bah. I take a deep breath and suck it up for the time being.

There's my cue.

_"I was adrift on an ocean all alone  
And you came and rescued me  
When I was far from home"_

Just as I'm beginning to start the prechorus, I have to cover my ears temporarily. Why are the girls screaming so loud? This isn't like normal hysterical crying. This is like shouts of terror. I can just hear the sound of a record scratch as the beat abruptly stops.

Mid-butt shake, I turn around...

What the fuck?! There's a... convertible Mustang? Driving right through the pack of fangirls who are now diving towards the walls of the alley for their lives...

"Move out the way, bitches, that is _my_ booty!" Who the hell is... I catch the glint of a familar star ring on the steering wheel...

"JUDE?!" I scream. How the heck did she...?

"Yeah, now stop shaking your ass and get in the damn car!" I hop down from the stage and land in the passenger seat with an 'oof'.

"Good thing for those parachute pants, babe. Totally slowed the fall," she comments with a patronizing snigger.

"Smartass"

"What was the that? Your adorable fiancee rescues you and you have nothing nice to say?"

"Sorry, baby. You know I love you...," I say, leaning over the seat to give her a kiss on the corner of her mouth.

"NO!! MY LITTLE TOMMY, DON'T GO!!" Ribotola, who is standing in our way behind the car, screams at us while waving her hands desperately.

"I don't know who the hell you are or what side of the forest you woke up on, but 'Little Tommy' belongs to me," Jude says, turning around in her rent-a-car seat to back out of the alley, the engagement ring I got her flashing inadvertantly in Ribotola's face. Damn straight! "...and my _fiance_ and I have a tour to play, so you and your pointer sisters can move or carpet the ground. Got it?" She is so sexy when she's pissed.

"BU-BUT, WE SAVED HIM...WITH OUR LOVE!!" I swear, she won't give up that shit.

"Sure. Kinda like I'm going to run your ass over..._with my vehicle_!" Jude yells. Did I mention how hot she is angry? I mean, really, I should get abducted more often.

Just to prove her point, Jude revs up the engine and starts backing out full speed, causing hairy tit monster to jump sideways, finally out of the way. She peels out of the alley so fast that I swear she's done this kind of thing before.

"Damn, girl, where did you learn to drive like that?!" I ask as we pull onto the street, leaving Ribotola to have her tantrum in the sanctity of the terrifying, remote alley.

"Umm...One: The only DVDs we have in that damn bus are your _Walker, Texas Ranger_ seasons and _Borne Ultimatum_, which is basically one continuous chase scene...," Jude says, letting out a deep breath, "and two: you drive me to the studio every day." Lady's got a point. But really, that was some freaky shit...

"Well, that was fucking awesome, baby!" I scoot closer to her and put my hand on her lower back. "Have I ever told you how much I love you?"

"I could bear to hear it some more," Jude says, a grin spreading across her face, "Plus, I had to totally ditch my sound check to come get you...so..."

"What? The small venue one? As in, your first solo show of the tour?"

"Yep," she pouts adorably. Honestly, who could resist that?

"You're my star, girl. Come 'ere," I pull her into a quick and loving kiss of gratitude. She's been excited about that show for weeks. I'm usually her opening act, but we have a select few shows where we're on our own. She was so pumped about playing at this cool local venue that she loved back on her second tour.

"It's not that big of a deal. They rescheduled for next week, and we were going to say here until then anyways...," she looks at the road as she makes a quick turn onto a main street, heading to the hotel we're staying in this week. "This wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I pictured us driving off into the Italian sunset, but stealing you back from those crazy bitches was kinda worth it." I laugh at her remark.

"Speaking of... How did you even know to come?" I've been extremely curious about this ever since she came speeding into that alley. I hope my soon-to-be wife doesn't possess some sort of voodoo mind reading powers... or, like, Spidey-senses or something. Though the latter would make me want to know what other super abilities she's got. That could get interesting, _very_ interesting.

"Well, let's see. You started panting into the phone, I heard hysterical crying, and then you hung up on me without saying anything," Jude recollected, "I called Kwest shortly after and he said you went on a licorice run, and then he saw you sprint down the street followed by a pack of girls. He thought you were 'getting some exercise'. Heh. So I just drove around the area of the convienence store until...well..."

"What?"

"You gave me the S.O.S. Who knew those cheesy lyrics could serve any purpose besides causing headaches? Anyways, I faintly heard singing, and, well, I couldn't forget that song if I tried. And believe me I've tried."

I playfully feign offended at her blatant insult, even though I've tried _desperately_ as well, "That hurts, Harrison."

"Speaking of hurting, can you take off that thing? The whiteness is _blinding_ me," Jude says with a smirk.

"Gladly," I offer as I unzip the horrid piece of clothing and throw the bandana into the backseat, "I just hope you don't mind what I have under...or what I _don't_ have under," I say wriggling my eyebrows suggestively at her.

"Hmm... Color me intrigued, Mr. Quincy," she says as she glances at me with a seductive smirk.

I take off the jumpsuit, and it joins the bandana in the back seat. Goddamn, that feels so much better. I can hear Jude gasp at me. Yeah, I know, my clothes are a bit...ripped.

"What the hell did they do to you, Tommy?!" Her eyes go wide as she studies the remains of my clothes, whipping the wheel to turn into the hotel's parking lot.

"You don't want to know," I sigh. Continuing her scan of my clothes, she gets that lusty look in her eyes, and I can't help but be curious.

Putting my hand on her thigh, I lean over and whisper into her ear, "What's on that mind of yours, Big Eyes?" She shudders lightly at my breath tickling the shell of her ear, and I grin at the reaction.

"Nothing...," she whispers in that voice she knows drives me insane, "I was just thinking of how much easier it will be for me to rip those off of you once we get to the room..." Oh, God. And now she starts nibbling at my jawline. Oh, sweet mother, that feels good...

Thank you, fangirls. Just... thank you...

If you're thinking it, say it in a review please. :)


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